Tangled Fates
by Kyrina10
Summary: "Where is Alduin! Where is the World Eater!" "I'm sorry Dragonborn he flies south, for the White Gold Tower." "Then I have to go and kill him and end this. Let me pass!" "If you go to the Imperial City you abandon High Rock and Hammerfell and Morrowind to destruction." "...Akatosh, what do I do? I can't let them die." "You must choose Dragonborn, choose which you will save..."
1. To the Beginning

**AN: Just a brief warning due to the nature of this story, me blending all the guild and main quest lines together and adding a few extra bits here and there, there will be OC characters. Each guild/faction will have at least one who will most likely be the cause or focus of the changes to that area of the story line. I would like to hope they are well rounded, well thought out and flawed but if you have concerns about any of them feel free to say so in a review.**

**Please enjoy... and if you don't perhaps you could tell me why in a nice and polite manner. I aim to improve rather than remain stagnant.**

* * *

**To the Beginning**

Bruma in the tail end of summer was just beginning to be sprinkled with snow, a reminder to the local Nords that their homeland was just a day's walk to the north. As if the tensions brewing between Skyrim and the Empire weren't enough to keep that fact fresh in their heads. With the amount of pro-Ulfric propaganda leaking through the border to combat the heavy layers of pro-Empire feeling in Bruma the divide between the ancestral home of the Nords and the Empire had never been more obvious to the residents of the border city.

The choice for the sons and daughters of Bruma, to support the Empire or throw in with Ulfric, was hard. They were all proud of their traditions and all of them, even if they weren't old enough to remember the Great War, hated the treaty that had banned the worship of Tiber Septim. Tensions in the area were running wild and there were no small number of discontented Nords of all ages roaming the immediate vicinity of the town with the Bear of house Stormcloak splashed over crudely made shields.

Many others were out there trying simply to bring home some furs, reagents or rare ores to sell. Times were hard and for many it was the only way to make ends meet without the usual travellers buying supplies. No one in their right minds wanted to spend much time in a province about to be overrun by civil war.

They had to keep their heads down, if the roaming Stormcloak supporters found them they would be robbed, beaten and return to Bruma with nothing. Travellers in the area, especially those that struck the roaming Stormcloak supporters as looking elvish, often were relieved of all their coin and no little amount of their dignity. Bruma was not a pleasant place to live or travel around at the moment and unless the unrest in Skyrim ceased soon it would stay that way for longer still.

Not that most of that mattered to the young Nord padding silently through the snow, bow in hand, after a set of deer tracks. All that was on his mind was his hunt. He was barely even aware that he was padding ever closer to the main road between Bruma and the Imperial City. It was only when his booted foot hit hard stone under the dusting of snow instead of cold earth that he realised what had happened. Cursing a little he rushed to the other side of the road, hoping his quarry had just crossed straight over rather than walking over the paving.

No such luck, unblemished snow stared up at him and he sighed. It looked like he was having a bad day and the sun was beginning to set. No more time to hunt, the light was failing and he was no catkin that could see through night-time shadows. Sighing at his ill fortune he slung his bow over his back and started walking back towards the city. At least he had found the road so he would make it home just after sunset rather than when the moon was well towards it zenith.

"I dunno, he looks kinda elven to me." A loud booming voice carried past a jutting formation of rock. The hunter scowled to himself. He'd been hoping to get home without incident, not run into a bunch of fake Stormcloaks harassing some poor traveller.

He slipped off the road, treading carefully and remembering his father's lessons in stealth. The particular way a true hunter, or thief, moved. Sven had called such movement the nightingale's step and had taught it with meticulous precision. Other than the slight crunch of snow under his soles the hunter made no sound as he moved towards a tall rocky formation overhanging the next curve of the road.

He crept up the rock formation, keeping low and hoping his mottled dark and light grey hunting clothes would serve as camouflage if someone looked his way. He reached the peak and surveyed the scene before him. The Stormcloak wannabes were still debating whether or not the single dark cloaked figure they had surrounded looked elvish.

From the rather diminutive stature of the dark cloaked figure the hunter rather doubted it was a High Elf. The shoulders looked too broad for any of the slender mer races but the figure's frame was otherwise to slender to be part of one of the races of men. Unless the poor soul had been underfed or something worse, and even then that was probably pushing it a bit.

"Does it matter, Ygrette? Elf or not he has to pay the toll." The burliest of the way-layers said, finally putting a stop to all the bickering. Leering, the man stepped closer to the dark cloaked figure and made to grab the smaller person by the front of his cloak. Moving faster than the hunter could track the figure dodged backwards, almost seeming to glide over the snow dusted road with inhuman ease.

"Oi, everyone pays the toll unless they want to meet the business end of my hammer." The Stormcloak man half growled. On his perch the hunter readied his bow and knocked an arrow, this seemed like it was about to get ugly.

"I think not." The man in the dark cloak told the hammer wielding man, skipping lightly out of reach of another swipe.

"What did you say!"

"I said I don't think so, I don't think I'll be paying your toll. So I'll be leaving now." The cloaked man started up the road, deftly avoiding yet another attempt to grab him and twitching the ends of his cloak out of reach of a more devious bandit.

"No one leaves without paying!" The leader roared and charged. Without a backwards glance the cloaked man ducked under the horizontal swing of the hammer with the same fluid ease of before.

"I'd rather not have to hurt you, so if you can just let me go..." the cloaked man was cut off when he was forced to leap away from another hammer swing. The rest of the fake Stormcloaks drew a motley assortment of wood axes and semi rusted swords. One must have gotten his hands on a weapons shipment or something since he pulled a crossbow.

"Fine." The cloaked man said in a frozen voice that made the cold rock feel warm. Light gathered in one of the man's palms for a second before he burst into flames.

"Wow." The hunter breathed, staring. He'd heard of spells that could protect the caster by covering them in layers of fire, lightning or ice but he'd never thought he'd actually see one. He was so entranced that he missed the twang of the crossbow firing. Only noticing when the mage gasped in pain and staggered back, bolt protruding from his upper arm.

Annoyed now, he'd put up with these idiots shit for too many months anyway, the hunter aimed and loosed his arrow. He was in no mood to see someone killed in front of him and do nothing about it. His arrow speared the crossbow wielder through the palm. The man dropped the weapon and howled. The hunter grinned, served the idiot right.

The mage, recovering quickly despite what must have been ungodly amounts of pain, ducked under a hammer swing to send the lead man down with a well placed kick to the abdomen. Flames spread to the leader from the brief contact and the man started screaming and rolling as the magical fire started spreading.

The rest of the wannabe Stormcloaks exchanged glances. Two started running. Three stayed. The hunter knocked another arrow and sent it into the leg of his next target. The man went down screaming and crying in pain. The mage raised a hand and lightning leapt from his fingers to shock the next man to the ground where he twitched. The third ran and the mage let him go, flames winking out on him and the lead Stormcloak wannabe.

The mage groaned and collapsed against a tree, holding his injured arm close, obviously in pain. The lead idiot started to reach for his hammer. Some people just never learnt. The hunter sent an arrow through the man's hand and dropped down from the rock he'd perched on. He walked to the man and kicked the hammer away. For good measure he booted the idiot in the ribs as well before slinging his bow over his back again and going to check on the mage.

"Hey, you need a hand to Bruma?" He asked the mage a little awkwardly. It was the first thing that popped into his head even if it was a stupid question. There was no answer.

"Are you okay? Hey." He waved a hand in front of the mage's face and still got nothing. Worried now, he reached to check the pulse at the mage's neck. It was still there and still pretty strong, that was good. The poor man had probably just lost consciousness from the pain.

Seeing no other course of action he picked up the mage, trying not to jostle the arm with the bolt in it, and started towards the city. The temple healers could fix the arm in seconds, probably, and if they couldn't his mother could.

* * *

"Drake, what on Nirn have you got there?" The gate-guard called, staring at the figure shrouded in dark material in the hunter's arms.

"He was assaulted by one of the gangs out on the road, need to get him to the temple healers." He called back and the guard vanished from the watch tower and down towards the windlass that opened Bruma's front gate. Waiting only long enough for the huge gates to part enough to let a man squeeze past Drake hurried into the city. He hadn't been kidding when he'd said he needed to get the cloaked man to the healers. There must have been something on the bolt, a poison or perhaps just dirt, either way he could feel feverish heat through the mage's cloak. He was pretty certain that was really, really bad.

The main road from the gate lead up the layers of the city, towards the castle at the top, with the re dedicated chapel of the Eight fronting onto the road about halfway up the sloped city. Half way up the city was further than his home, the healers there were further than his mother and her skills. It wasn't really a choice, even a few minutes could spell the difference between life and death when poison was involved. It was a lesson both his parents had driven into his skull repeatedly.

He barged through the side door to the shop, a bakery run by his parents, and into the kitchen. The smell of fresh baked and still baking bread familiar and wonderful. Both his parents, obviously waiting for him to get back, took one look and their expressions changed. The lines on Sven's face hardened for a second before he slipped into concern. Johanna's face froze in shock before setting into a business like frown of determination.

"Down to the cellar, it's cleaner there." She ordered and Drake obeyed. Down in the cellar there was a cold slate slab, reserved for these occasions. Usually though it wasn't a stranger lying on it with a crossbow bolt sticking out of his arm. Usually it was one of Sven's old associates with a stab wound or other similar injury.

The three of them worked together with the ease of long practise. Drake heating water with a little magical fire and grabbing whatever medicines his mother called for from the shelves. Johanna was a brilliant cook and baker and an even better alchemist, not that she often used her alchemical skills these days.

When the water was heated and as sterile as he could manage to get it he brought it over. Johanna nodded to Sven and placed her hands on the man's shoulders, holding him against the slab. Sven grabbed the bolt firmly and wrenched it out of the man's arm.

Drake grabbed a cloth and cleaned the puncture quickly before Johanna brought a golden globe of healing magic over the wound. Under the warmth of the spell muscle and skin started weaving themselves together, near seamlessly fixing the puncture. The only hint that it had ever been there after Johanna had finished was an irregular circle of slightly paler skin.

"Take him to the guest room." Johanna commanded and Drake gathered the man he had rescued up and carried him to the spare room on the first floor obediently. Carefully he placed the mage onto the bed and muttered plea to Mara to make sure everything had healed well.

When he returned to the kitchen both his parents were staring at him, clearly bristling with questions. Naturally it was his mother that started first.

"Who, exactly, was he?" She asked, eyes flicking in the direction of the guest room.

"No idea," Drake answered with a shrug, "some poor guy being harassed by one of those gangs lurking around these days." His parents exchanged a look before sighing in unison.

"Honey, you can't help everyone out there." Johanna said. "You'll just get yourself hurt if you try."

"I know mum but..."

"But nothing," Sven cut him off, "it's not possible Drake, especially if you insist on going to Skyrim." Drake bristled, what did it matter where he was if he saw someone who needed a hand it would be wrong not to offer. Even if the province in question was on the brink of civil war, that wasn't a reason not to help those who needed it.

"This isn't Skyrim, and what harm can one man do here? He was just in the wrong place with the wrong people." Both his parents sighed again.

"One man or woman can topple empires." Johanna said heavily.

"Or save them." Drake responded fiercely. The Hero of Kvatch and Champion of Cyrodiil had been one man and he had, single handed, saved the whole Empire from falling into Oblivion.

"Kid that's just a story, it's not actually true." Sven started eating, the food was cold by now but that didn't change the fact it was the only meal they would be getting tonight. Drake grabbed his plate, his knife and retreated to one corner of the kitchen.

"It could be true." He muttered before starting to eat himself. Just because the High Elves insisted it had been them who ended the Oblivion Crisis didn't make it true. If that was true why did the statue in front of the castle claim that the Champion had done it?

"There was obviously some seed to the story, probably some good looking Blade or sell sword who helped Martin Septim..." Johanna started.

"The Champion was real, I know he was." Drake protested and his parents looked down at the food silently. "He had to be." Drake muttered to himself. If the Champion wasn't real then the High Elves were right. The High Elves couldn't be right, could they?

There was a knock at the door. It was a very specific knock, one that few people knew, five quick staccato raps followed by three seemingly oddly spaced light taps. Anyone who didn't know it would have a hard time replicating it, the timing between each of the light taps varied by year, month and day. It wasn't totally secure but it was better than most supposedly secret knocks that floated around Cyrodiil in this era.

Drake started clearing the table, whether or not it would be used he didn't know but it had to done. They were either here with someone injured or they were here to celebrate a job well done. Sven got the door and Drake could just hear hushed voices talking. He could never make out what was being said between his father and his old associates but from the tone tonight they were celebrating rather than seeking medical aid.

Four people, three men and a woman, with bottles of something probably highly alcoholic, burst into the room. Three of them were grinning from ear to ear and the fourth managed to look happy despite his recently broken nose obviously making him wince in pain.

"How did you break your nose again?" Johanna asked exasperated but she already had a clean cloth in her hands.

"He started a fight, it didn't go so well for him." The woman of the group, a short blonde wood elf, explained succinctly. Drake smothered a laugh. That always seemed to be the reason for the more amusing injuries this lot acquired.

"Maybe he should stop getting into fights then." Johanna said a little pointedly as she set about healing the man's abused nose.

"It was worth it." Was the unanimous response from all four guests. Drake glanced over at the group that had scattered around the room, leaning on whatever surfaces they found rather than sit, and drinking straight from their bottles.

"What did you get?" He asked, eager to know what had brought on the celebration. As far as he had been aware, which admittedly wasn't of much, there hadn't been anything big planned.

"This." The wood elf woman said and pulled a necklace out of a pouch at her hip. It was, in Drake's opinion, ugly. Huge discs of gold gleamed in the light, too large for any sensible person's taste and very definitely far to gaudy. The amount of gold used in the discs, and there were about twenty making the chain, was what was most appealing. It would be worth a lot melted down into ingots and sold.

The really impressive thing was the spike of smoky crystal that made the centre piece of the necklace. That glittered with enchantment.

"Whoa, what is that?" He reached to touch the crystal but the wood elf jerked the necklace away from his fingers.

"Ah, ah, not a member no touching." She wagged a finger at him and swigged her drink. "Speaking of, you're what twenty now, right? I'm sure the Fox wouldn't say no to having a new recruit up here, especially with those rumours about how poor those fools up north are doing." It was tempting, very tempting, but...

"No!" Sven and Johanna declared in unison, glaring at both him and the wood elf who'd suggested it.

"Come on, he's full grown now. He should make his own decisions." The wood elf said evenly, like it was the most reasonably thing in the world.

"It's fine, I've made a different decision anyway." Well he had now at least. "I've decided to visit Skyrim, see the home province and all that."

"Good for you, Drake." The wood elf clapped him round the shoulder, she'd been urging him to something other than help out at the shop for a couple of years now. His parents were not quite so happy, even though they had been discussing this for a while now.

"But, the war... the Stormcloaks..."

"I'll be fine mum, I know how to stay clear of trouble." Steer clear of it or sneak past it, whichever worked.

"I say this calls for wine!" The wood elf decided and started rummaging around the cupboard she was leaning against for some. The call for wine was quickly taken up by her friends.

"Drake, c'mere." Sven wrapped and arm around Drake's shoulders and half lead half dragged him out of the kitchen and away from the merriment and wine. There was concern in his voice and a spark of worry in his eyes, accentuated by the frown on his face.

"What is it?" There had to be a reason for Sven's concern. Of his parents Sven was the one most at ease with him leaving the city and actually finding something to do with his life.

"I'm not gonna stop you going, but," and Sven looked him deep in the eye, "be careful kid. The north isn't as safe as down here, it wasn't even before the war but now... the Stormcloaks and the Empire. Be careful, you don't want to run afoul of either."

"Of course, I like my skin intact." Drake half joked but Sven was not amused, cuffing him lightly.

"This is not a joking matter. Keep your head down, and for Akatosh's sake don't back chat one of the Jarls. Now, don't you have packing to do, if you really are heading up into Skyrim." Yeah, packing, that was a thing he had to do. It was also something that would keep him away from his dad's friends, something both his parents preferred. He nodded a little meekly and trudged up the stairs to his boxy little room.

He grabbed a pack and opened a draw in his battered, warped old dresser and debated what exactly he would need. His pack was only half full by the time he fell into bed, too tired to think straight any more.

Last night's celebrating guests had left the evidence of their stay all around the kitchen, up turned cups, empty bottles even a few chips in what had been perfect plates. Drake wasn't even sure how that could have happened, what had they been doing juggling the plates? It seemed unlikely.

"Drake can you take this to the guest room please." Johanna pushed a bowl of soup into his hands and for a moment he was confused. Then he remembered the mage he'd carried here for healing yesterday evening and practically leapt for the stairs.

He reached the door to the guest room and pushed it open. Inside the room, sitting on the bed with his legs crossed, was the dark cloaked man. Between the man's hands was a sphere of magical energy, roiling against some invisible barrier, cast stark blue light on everything. Carefully and quietly he set the bowl down, suddenly very eager not to disturb this mage, and winced when the pottery bowl clinked. The magical energy ball winked out.

"Thank you." The mage said quietly.

"Um, for what exactly, 'cause if it's for the soup then you speak to my mum, she cooked it and..." he trailed off when the mage held up a hand.

"For helping fight those bandits, for healing my arm." The mage clarified, sounding a little amused.

"Oh, er, you're welcome." Drake muttered and started to leave.

"Could you wait a moment, please?" Drake paused half through the door.

"What?"

"Um, could you tell me where exactly this is? I mean I know it's your home but where is that?" The mage suddenly sounded unsure and much younger than the age Drake had assumed he was.

"Bruma, of course." He replied and the mage nodded to himself.

"Thank you, again." The mage dipped his still hooded head and reached for the bowl of soup.

"No problem." Drake muttered and stepped out of the room, closing the door softly behind him, and clattered down the stairs.

He had most of what he thought he'd need packed and the intention of leaving for Skyrim but there were still certain essentials he had to buy. A tinder box for one thing, he was fairly sure that even using the pass through the Jerall mountains he would not come across a town before he had to camp for the night. He was half temped to buy armour, but that would eat into his rather sparse funds and there was no guarantee he would need it. Not when he planned to avoid trouble.

The next few hours, Drake had already resigned himself to the fact he would not be leaving that day, were spent purchasing what he needed. Tinder box, sleeping furs, tent and all manner of other things he wouldn't have thought of without the help of the local general trader. Not least of which being a map of the northern province and a book of traveller's insights into the cities of Skyrim.

After looking through those two things he decided on a destination, Whiterun. It was central, home of the Companions and generally considered the unofficial capital of the province. If Solitude, the actual capital at least according to the Empire, wanted something it almost always came through Whiterun. It seemed the logical first stop on a trip to the province. From there he could earn some coin and figure out where to go next.

Laden down with these new additions for his pack he shouldered the door open and disappeared up stairs to fit it all neatly into it. It was a process that didn't go swiftly or neatly. He had to unpack and repack half a dozen times before everything fitted, with most of the larger items hanging outside the waterproofed leather. He supposed it looked vaguely respectable, from a distance at least.

"Drake, dinner." Johanna called from downstairs and he gave one last glance at his pack. Reassured that it wasn't about to collapse, or split its seams, once he left the room he sped down the stairs, jumping the last two, and into the kitchen. The table had been wiped clean and there were actual place settings and a vase full of fresh picked flowers in the centre. He hadn't seen the table like that for years.

He sat gingerly in the nearest seat, what was going on? Were they trying to impress someone, the mage? That was probably it. Just another manifestation of the perfect image his mother tried to project to the rest of the city, and even outside it.

The mage entered, cloak and hood absent for once, and Drake realised why those men had thought the small mage looked elvish. Quite apart from the slim build and generally elf-like figure it was the eyes. They were almond shaped and slanted like those of any of the elf races as well having the distinctive gold green hue of High Elf eyes. No other race of man, mer or beast-folk could match that colouration.

"What?" The mage asked defensively, glaring at him, and Drake realised he had been staring.

"Nothing." It was just he'd never seen someone be so obviously elvish and yet so obviously not before. Given the current wave of anti elf feeling it seemed unusual for someone like that to be walking the roads of Cyrodiil.

"So, er," Drake fumbled for conversation, "where are you from?"

"Camlorn." The mage answered simply. If Drake remembered right that was a city in High Rock. It seemed that the mage was not interested in conversation, at least not conversation with him.

The meal started and nearly ended in silence. Drake knew his parents would respect the mage's desire for silence only so long before asking whatever was on their minds, especially when they thought it was important. True to form when the meal was nearly over Sven started talking.

"So what brings you this way? Come to admire the local sights?"

"Although the local sights are beautiful I am sure, they are not why I'm travelling this way." The mage replied strangely diplomatic for someone answering such a simple question. "I aim to reach the College of Winterhold in Skyrim."

"Really, that's an awfully long way to walk." Drake said, having the rough distance of Winterhold from Bruma in his head from the long minutes he'd spent looking at his new map.

"Yes, really." Well that was succinct.

"Skyrim's a dangerous place to be going these days, you sure you can get that far?" Sven asked, concern in his voice.

"I am sure, sir, that I can reach my destination." The mage replied with a touch of steel in his tone.

"Even after getting beat up by those bandit types around here?" Sven kept pushing.

"That was an... oversight, one I will correct in the future."

"An oversight huh, what are you a trained soldier or something?" Drake asked, that had sounded odd coming out of mages mouth.

"Not a soldier no, I am a mostly trained battle-mage which amounts to something similar in this context." Whoa, this guy was a battle-mage. He hadn't seen that coming.

"Battle-mage, known a few in my time, who trained you?" Sven asked, curiosity very apparent in his voice now rather than concern.

"Dimitri Chevalier."

"What?" Drake, Sven and Johanna said in synchrony, their jaws dropping. Dimitri Chevalier was a famous General from an even more famous family. A Breton clan of battle-mages, the largest in the empire it was claimed, and Dimitri was the current head. That wasn't his only point of fame though, Dimitri was the hero if a great many battles over the last forty years or so and had earned a great many epithets with it.

"He is my father, who else would train me?" The mage asked, a glint of amusement in his gold-green eyes now. Drake glanced at his parents for a second before blurting out the first thing that came into his head.

"I'm going to Skyrim too, can I walk with you?" He asked in a rush that had words almost tumbling over each other as he said them. At least it was somewhat intelligible. The mage blinked a few times, shocked before shrugging.

"If you want." The mage managed to say before Drake whooped. This was going to be awesome. There was no way he'd get into trouble with a son of Dimitri Chevalier by his side. No one messed with a Chevalier battle-mage.

"But," the mage said quickly, "I will not detour from my path unless I have to. Do not expect me to go wherever you wish to based on whim."

"Gotcha." Drake acknowledged with a wide grin and held his hand out to the mage. "Drake Svensson."

"Alain Chevalier." The mage replied and shook the offered hand. Drake glanced at his parents, not entirely sure what he'd see, and was relieved to find Johanna looking much less worried than before. That was good, he'd hate to leave with her still worried about him.


	2. Dragon Rising

**Disclaimer, given I forgot last time, I do not own the world of Tamriel or any characters not of my own design everything belongs to Bethesda Softworks. I just enjoy messing around in their beautifully detailed world.**

Dragon Rising

Drake looked back towards Bruma once they were on the road north and wondered if he'd made the right choice. He was just a few miles away from home but already he wanted to run back and just return to how life had been before. He could still do it but if he did then he wouldn't see Skyrim, which mattered to him more?

Skyrim was his ancestral home, he knew that, and he did want to see why it had got the whole Empire riled up but Bruma was his home. He almost felt like in leaving it he was dooming the city. Which was really stupid because even if there was some great calamity coming what could he, a baker's son and sometime hunter, actually do about it? Not much was the answer that seemed most likely.

Still, he probably should have done more than just hugged his mum goodbye and reassured his dad that he'd be fine. Not that he was sure what more he could have done.

Biting his lip he kept walking, he had made his decision and he would stick by it.

"Ask." Alain said after they'd been out of Bruma and nearly two hours. Drake's steps faltered. How had the mage known he was dying to ask a question? There wasn't a spell that he knew of to let a mage read another person's mind.

"How did you know I wanted to ask something?" He asked right back and Alain chuckled a little.

"Everyone asks me the same question, sooner or later. So, ask." Drake stopped in his tracks; did everyone really ask Alain about his elf like eyes? Alain kept walking, either not knowing or not caring that he'd stopped dead.

"I'm not about to be offended by it you know." The mage called back, pausing to look back at him. "It's just natural to be curious." Drake started walking again and pulled his scarf higher over his chin to block out some of the wind.

"Why are your eyes like a High Elf's?" He asked, blurted really, after a second.

"Well, my grandmother was an Altmer and my father and siblings all have the eyes to, an odd quirk of inheritance. Father hoped we'd get some of the natural gift with magicka, like he did, but there's been no sign of that yet." The mage answered a little tightly. Uncomfortable subject it seemed.

"What about you, don't really see many Nords around not six foot tall and as muscle bound as Orcs." The mage asked back as they continued towards the pass into Skyrim. Drake smiled to himself that was true enough, he didn't have the usual Nord build in the slightest. Neither did his parents so he'd never thought much of it.

"You met my parents; they aren't exactly muscle bound idiots either." Drake shot back, voice slightly muffled by the thick wool scarf.

"True, but I wouldn't be surprised if your father had some Bosmer blood while your mother looked like she might be part Breton." Drake's eyes widened in shock, how had the mage known that? It was more than simple deduction surely? No one had ever picked up on his parents mixed heritage before now and certainly never a complete stranger they'd met for all of a few hours. He hadn't even known about it until someone from his dad's end of things, a Breton thief with a wheezy kind of voice, had let it slip one night.

"How did you know that?" Drake asked a little breathless.

"A lot of study when I was younger I suppose. I'm not very good at it, Cerise or father would have been able to tell more." The mage scuffed a shoe through the snow and Drake got the feeling he was scowling.

"No one else could even tell that much though." Drake told the mage hoping to brighten things up again.

"Your mother healed me, I should have been able to determine more than her having a little Breton blood from that." Was all he got in reply.

Silence fell between them after that. Drake didn't want to say anything else, so far all he seemed to have managed was to upset the mage with his questions. His attempt at complimenting had backfired and he was at a loss for what else he could do. Unable to think of anything to converse about he took to watching the mage walking in front of him. That fluid grace he had noticed before was still there, reminding him of the way sabre cats moved when hunting, and it made him a little envious. He'd worked and worked to try and perfect his nightingale's step but he wasn't nearly as good as this mage. It was probably to be expected, Alain would have been trained to fight since he could walk being a battle-mage and all.

He had a disadvantage in his bulky pack, Drake consoled himself. Why Alain was travelling without anything but what he could carry in pockets and pouches was beyond him. All the mages he'd met in the past had a satchel at least if not a proper bag, for keeping things like soul gems or alchemy ingredients. Alain carried nothing like that, it was just the clothes on his back and a thick cloak to keep the worst of the wind and snow out. It wasn't at all the dress of someone who expected to get to the college at the north most point of Skyrim.

The further they went the further away Drake's enthusiasm for travelling with a Chevalier mage went and the colder the air got. Drake was used to it, he was a Nord after all a little cold wouldn't affect him, but Alain was shivering so much Drake could see the tremors from several feet behind. Making up his mind he dug around in his pack for an extra cloak or coat or something. He dragged out a thick wool blanket, folded it so it wouldn't drag along the ground, and wrapped it around the mage's shoulders.

"Thank you." Alain said so quietly Drake nearly missed it.

"I thought you mage types could keep warm with magic." Drake said and heard a bitter laugh in reply.

"Doubtless father wanted me to get cold and go running back to the Imperial City." Drake didn't get it, what did the Alain's father have to do with it? But there was clearly plenty of resentment there, festering between father and son. Drake couldn't imagine what that would be like, to hate his own father. Sven had always been there for him, always, he could never hate him.

"Well I guess he'll just have to be disappointed then." Drake decided.

"I suppose he will." The mage answered, sounding again like he was smiling. Drake smiled to himself, that was what he'd been aiming for and he was glad he'd got it.

They reached the border marker, a crumbling old tower in the middle of the pass. It was unoccupied. Too far for the Bruma guards to be bothered to man it in winter and not near enough to the pass to be Skyrim's responsibility. At least it provided some shelter from the wind and somewhere mostly dry and not covered in snow.

Alain stood just outside the entrance for a few moments before one arm blurred out and something ethereal and purple sped from his fingers and into the snow. Seconds later the mage was bringing in a small white rabbit with a little ethereal spike jutting out of its head.

That was impressive, a hard target to hit with something like a throwing knife or spike. The mage yanked out the knife spike thing and unsheathed a very mundane plain knife to start skinning the rabbit. Definitely not what Drake had expected. Alain was nobility back in High Rock why did he know how to skin dead animals. Surely there were servants for that sort of thing.

"I thought nobles had servants to cook and hunt for them." He commented while building up a fire from the precious little dry wood around. Thank Talos he could use a little magicka to start the flames and dry out a bit of the damp wood.

"Father made us go on survival treks in the mountains. Come back alive or don't come back at all." Alain explained while the rabbit roasted over the fire, skewered in place by a long, sharpened stick. "Hunger is a powerful motivation to learn to do something."

"Your father sounds like a harsh man." Drake commented slowly, turning the rabbit to keep it from burning.

"It doesn't help that I hate the family profession. It's hard to be good at something you don't like." Alain mused. "Being the youngest doesn't help either nor does being the weakest."

"So he treats you badly?" Drake asked, disbelieving. What kind of parent would do that?

"He doesn't treat me badly by his standards, we're just not on the same page." Drake scuffed moodily at the floor. That wasn't a real answer.

"But..."

"Leave it, please. I'd prefer not to talk about him." Alain huddled down in his layers of blanket and cloak and watched the fire. Drake shut up and made sure the meat was cooking evenly.

"What about the rest of your family?" He asked eventually, wondering if that topic was off limits too.

"What about them?" Alain asked right back, a little grumpily.

"Well, how do they feel about you doing this?" Drake clarified and Alain shrugged.

"Mother's convinced I won't be able to make it and that I'll be back before they leave the Imperial City in a week. Cerise, I think, is happy for me actually doing something I want to do. The rest don't give a damn." Well that was rather sad in itself. Drake would have asked more but Alain had turned away and Drake figured it was best not to push matters.

After a night spent in the old abandoned watch tower there was a layer of frost over everything. Drake's pack, the paved floor, the blankets the mage was huddled under. It turned out that this was not as large a problem as he had thought it would be. Apparently when a mage settles down to think about a problem, they really think about the problem and how to solve it through the liberal application of magic.

All the warning he got that Alain was about to do something was the pooled reddish orange flames in his hands. Then fire flooded from between the mage's fingers and washed over everything, Alain, the blankets, the stone floor, Drake's pack and Drake himself.

"Gah!" Drake scrambled back from the fire before noticing it wasn't burning anything. In fact, for the first time since he'd left home he actually felt warm when the flames washed over and past him.

"Sorry, over did it a little." Alain apologised a little sheepishly, a few flames flickering on his shoulders. At least everything was frost free that was all Drake could think. Humping a frost covered pack, which would eventually melt and make him wet, would be complete torture.

"Just, say something next time." Drake said a little breathless with residual adrenaline and shouldered his pack. Alain shrugged off the blanket and handed it back. Drake would have asked why but those flames from earlier still hadn't vanished. Whatever spell that had been Alain was keeping it running, at least on himself. Which was eminently sensible given the conditions outside of the watch tower.

The snowstorm last evening had covered the ground in a layer of snow that reached to thigh height on the short Breton and managed to nearly reach Drake's own. This was not weather he fancied upon anyone who was not a Nord or didn't have enough Nordic blood to resist the cold. At least Helgen was straight on the way to Whiterun from here and should only take the best part of the day to reach even with all the snow on the roads.

"Haven't you got anything with you?" Drake asked when he noticed the mage absently picking and eating Snowberries as they walked. He had enough travel rations, dried meat, fruit, nuts and hard biscuits, to last him a week or so but the mage didn't seem to have anything.

"No, my leaving was rather... spur of the moment." Recognising the tone of voice, it was the same as last night when they were talking about parenting styles, Drake decided to leave the exact circumstances be. He wasn't interested in getting into an argument or another stretch of silence.

"At least you managed to leave when you wanted, I've been stuck trying to get mum to let me visit Skyrim for months." Drake said, moving the conversation back to himself and a safe topic.

"Months? That doesn't seem particularly Nordic of you." The mage said, tone suggesting he was almost laughing. Drake merely folded his arms made a show of looking away in disgust.

"I'll have you know that it is perfectly Nordic for an only child to live and work with his or her parents until they reach twenty." He said huffily but he was smiling even as he acted offended. It was pretty normal in Bruma, houses didn't come cheap and it was common for people to only move away after learning as much as possible of their family craft. To that end he was, in fact, a brilliant baker as well as hunter and general errand runner.

"Oh? In High Rock it's common only for the first son to remain in the home after the age of eighteen. The rest of us are expected to run off and return in shame a few years later." Alain challenged. "It teaches the value of family apparently."

"Ouch, sounds harsh to me." Drake said without thinking. That was likely what had happened to the mage, run off when he reached the proper age to leave. Especially since he had no interest in the family craft and had some kind of quarrel with his father.

"Could be worse, Orismer generally don't make thirty so their children go out into the world at about fourteen or even younger sometimes." Drake's mind boggled at such a lifestyle. He would never have survived outside of the city at that age.

"Seriously? That's awful." He said and rather quickly he was treated to a lesson on the general ages that each race sent their children into the world to fend to themselves. It was a quick generalisation of each race but it was still interesting and had them talking nearly to the gates of Helgen.

"How do you know all that? High Elves and Nords and Bretons I can understand, even Orcs to an extent, but everyone else?" Drake said unsure just why a young Breton battle-mage in training would know all this seemingly random information.

"Cerise likes to read and regale us all with random facts. I happen to have the bad luck of fairly accurately remembering almost everything I hear." Alain said with a shrug. "Comes in useful on occasion."

"Ever consider not being a mage and going into politics?" Drake asked half joking and the mage shuddered.

"Akatosh no, politics is not the place for me." He denied as they came to the gates of Helgen. Fairly standard wooden affairs, held together with iron bands and thick enough to withstand most magic and physical attempts at breaking in. A battering ram would probably sort them right out or a sufficiently powerful magical blast but that would be magic on a level of Arch Mages and the like.

"Names and business." The guard by the gate said sounding bored half to death.

"I'm Drake Svenson, just looking to stay the night at the inn." Drake replied, very eager to put down his pack and eat something hot.

"Alain Chevalier, also staying at the inn for the night." The mage said and Drake noticed for the first time that the small Breton had flipped his hood back over his head again. The guard grunted and unlatched the gate before pushing it open for them.

"Thanks." Drake said and stepped through into Helgen. It was a relatively nice looking city, a little heavy on thick stone architecture and there seemed to be defensive strictures all through the town but the greenery not obscured by the snow lightened the effect a little. All in all it looked like a decent enough place to settle down.

The main road through the town had been cleared and it lead right past the inn. I was called the Flooding Cask and even through the closed door Drake could hear singing and someone playing the lute. It was almost like standing in front of the inn back home.

After a brief exposure to the inside of the inn before collapsing into a bed Drake was forced to conclude that it was in face very unlike the inn back in Bruma. The prices weren't too high and the patrons and owner were nice enough but there were Legionnaires everywhere. Either something was going on or Helgen was disproportionately garrisoned for a town its size and location.

The food was hot and whoever cooked it was up there with the culinary greats in his humble opinion. Of course that could just be the cold talking and making him disproportionally grateful for anything that felt like it had just come off the fire. Either way his first real, proper Skyrim experience was a good one and he hoped they stayed that way.

"Drake, Drake Svenson?" A legionnaire sat opposite him, ignoring Alain completely, and stared at him. The legionnaire was old, weather beaten and looked familiar. There was something about his grey blue eyes that reminded Drake of...

"Celso!" He recognised the legionary and grinned. Of course he was familiar, how many times had he spent all day with Celso's two sons Lysander and Desi in Bruma.

"Akatosh preserve me, haven't you grown up." Celso laughed back. "Almost didn't recognise you now you tower over me like that." With a start Drake realised it was true, even sitting like now, he was very definitely taller than Celso.

"You've hardly changed at all." Drake replied. It was true though, Celso looked just the same as he had back in Bruma.

"You're too kind." Celso replied with a smile. "But what are you doing up here? It's dangerous, I never would have expected Johanna to let you just waltz through the Jerall pass."

"I just wanted to see Skyrim." Drake shrugged and Celso frowned.

"Now's not the best time you know, there's a civil war brewing." The old legionnaire said seriously. "You should go home and come back after it's over."

"I'll be fine, besides it isn't going to start this minute." Drake waved off Celso's concerns. "Besides with Alain around no one will bother me." He grinned and clapped a hand on Alain's shoulder. The mage jumped and shot him a venomous glare. Drake smiled back sheepishly and removed his hand. Celso glanced at Alain a second and started to say something before doing a double take.

"Good evening Praefect Cantor, your sons send their greetings." Alain said with a grin that bordered on smug.

"Wait, wait, wait." Drake said waving his hands frantically. "You know each other and, more to the point, you know Lysander and Desi?" He asked Alain seriously.

"They were stationed to Camlorn two years ago as Auxiliaries, Praefect Cantor visited once or twice. So yes I know them a bit." Alain answered. "How do you know them?"

"I grew up with Lysander and Desi, Celso used to be stationed in Bruma and they lived two doors down from us." Drake said. "Small world huh?"

"Very small world." Celso agreed dryly.

"Alright you've had your fun!" A female voice roared from the door to the inn. "Time to pack it in and move out!" Celso winced and rubbed an ear theatrically.

"That's duty calling, hang around a while tomorrow so we can talk properly." Drake nodded eagerly. He wanted to know about all the other places Celso had been stationed recently and how Lysander and Desi were. He hadn't had letters from either and he'd been starting to wonder if they had forgotten about him.

Celso left the inn and Drake yawned hugely. Well that was a signal to go to bed if ever he'd seen one. "G'night Alain." He mumbled and headed to his room.

The next morning no one seemed to be around and there was a slow, steady clip clop of horse's hooves outside. Curiously he left the inn and saw Alain, leaning against the rails watching several carts file past. Each had five or six man and women in chainmail covered by blue cloth sitting in silence. The last cart contained two men in the blue streaked armour, a man in rich furs over chainmail and a gag over his mouth along with a skinny, sallow skinned man in rags. Celso was driving one of the carts sombrely.

"Who are they?" He asked, having a few guesses but not sure if he was right.

"Stormcloaks, all of them, and Ulfric Stormcloak himself in the last cart." Alain answered confirming Drake's first guess of who they were. Not that it explained what they were doing being carted through a small town like Helgen. That was probably something Alain wouldn't have an answer to however.

"Wait, how do you know one of them is Ulfric?" Drake asked, he'd been dealing with idiots claiming loyalty to the man and he hadn't managed to recognise him.

"My father served with him once and he was invited to the family home several years ago, he accepted and tried to persuade father that the Empire was corrupt. Father disagreed." Alain said. "And now it looks like Ulfric is about to be executed for treason. They're going to make him a martyr, fools."

Drake frowned but he could follow the mage's logic. Once Ulfric was dead, probably without a proper trial judging by the battle marks still on the Stormcloaks, more and more would be attracted to his cause. It would get even better since the swift execution could be used as evidence that the Empire was indeed corrupt to the very core. While the Empire would have sliced off the head of the rebellion it would probably just grow fiercer.

"It might not happen that way." Drake said. Alain merely shrugged.

"It may not, but there are many men in the Legion who served with Ulfric and remember him fondly. There will be repercussions of this act and they will aid the rebellion as much as they hinder it." The young mage said with quiet certainty and the last cart finally turned the corner. Drake wondered if he should follow or not. He couldn't tell if he wanted to see what happened to Ulfric, it would certainly be a story to tell, but then again it wasn't something he wanted to see. The Empire taking a life without proper trial was not high on his list of sights he wanted to see in his life.

Even so he wanted to see the man who had inspired so much vitrol in his countrymen meet his end. He wanted to know for sure if Ulfric met his end like a man or not. So, with a handful of townspeople and Alain, he walked after the carts to stand at the very edges of the square in front of the tower keep.

Sure enough Ulfric was charged with treason and wasn't even able to defend his actions thanks to his gag. Drake had heard the rumours that Ulfric could Shout but before now he had never thought them true. If what the crowd and the General were saying was true not only was it true Ulfric had used the ancient power of the Thu'um to kill the High King of Skyrim.

A priestess began saying the last rites for those about to die. Drake clenched his teeth together hard to prevent himself shouting that there were nine divines. No matter what the Thalmor claimed Talos had been elevated to godhood and the elves couldn't change that. That was when he heard something strange, a distant roar echoing off the mountains. Beside him Alain seemed to hear it too, looking around even as the Legate in charge of the execution told her men to ignore it.

The first prisoner walked to the block and laid his head calmly above the basket. The executioners axe rose high, not gleaming in the sunlight because of a layer of dried blood on the blade, and fell. Drake flinched, eyes closing for a second as the axe met flesh. Killing animals was completely different to watching a man executed, he felt a little sick at the thump of the head falling into the waiting basket.

"Next prisoner!" The Legate yelled and another man walked forward, head held high and knelt at the block. The roar sounded again, louder this time and something huge and black appeared in the sky. It seemed too large to be a bird and it was getting larger all the time.

"Talos protect us." Drake said under his breath when the black shape became more than just a hazy silhouette. It was a dragon, a huge black dragon diving right for the town.

It landed on the watchtower, talons cracking the stonework, and raised its head to the sky. Its massive jaws opened and sound, terrible and loud, like nails of glass echoed around the whole town. The clouds started boiling and Drake found himself just staring in horror. A chunk of rock, the size of a small horse smashed into the courtyard and the ground lurched.

Drake lost his balance and fell on his side. He could still see the dragon perched on the watchtower and the flaming rocks that still fell from the sky. One tore through the watchtower, right under the dragon's talons, and it was forced to take flight.

"Run!" Someone yelled and Drake scrambled to his feet as more chunks of rock started smashing into buildings all around the town, reducing them to little more than rubble and flaming thatch. He looked around, first instinct to help despite the dragon attack. He couldn't spot Alain, the mage was presumably helping whatever effort there was to counter the dragon, but he did spot Celso.

The Praefect was surrounded by Stormcloak's and all of them looked about ready to kill. That wasn't right. There was a divine's cursed dragon destroying the town there were bigger things to think about.

"Hey!" He yelled and ran towards the confrontation, hoping to talk some sense into the Stormcloaks. He was halfway there when a huge black tail slammed down in front of him. The dragon looked at him with one huge red eye and opened its mouth.

"Down!" He dropped like a stone at the order and felt a stream of super cool air flood over him. Glancing back he saw a stream of misting ice meet a tongue of fire from the dragon's jaws. There was an explosion of white mist and a hand grabbed the back of Drake's shirt.

"Run." Alain pulled him upright and gave him a shove away from the dragon. He got about half a step before the dragon's tail slammed into his side and sent him flying across the courtyard. He tumbled head over heels until he smacked against a low wall or something that sent agony rippling down his bruised side.

Panting he got back to his knees and gulped. The dragon's snout was almost touching him it was so close.

"**Dir**" the dragon said and lunged for him, jaws open wide.


End file.
